It’s a funny thing. This process of translating events, thoughts and emotions to various combinations of the same 26 letters. Reducing moments of elation, longing or frustration to nothing more than a literate version of a mathematical equation. Hoping that something as lifeless as a drop of ink on a sheet of paper, or a succession of characters on a computer screen will transcend its existence, and somehow, miraculously, start breathing in the heart and mind of the reader. Desiring the sum of the parts to amount to more than its one dimensional ability.

Imagine a child playing in a magical forest, discovering the most fascinating creature. Overcome with excitement and wonder he feels compelled to take it home. to look at it again and again. Danny races back, returns with a box, and the animal is caught and carried home. Danny arrives, breathless with excitement. “Mom, mom come now. I have to show you something amazing!” Mom registers the urgency in Danny’s voice, opens the box and her face drops. In the corner of the shoebox, shrivelled into a sad little bundle lies the creature. Danny’s darling pet died on the way home. The harsh demands of the journey took its toll on the creatures’ fragile constitution.

Danny is distraught. A little while ago the creature was the most wonderful thing he’d ever encountered, and now it was ugly, dull, and worst of all – dead. The journey killed it.

Writing is the same. Life in all its fullness compels the writer to take the experience home, but the vehicle meant to carry it is also capable of killing it. It is the science of containing and conveying life experiences.Forcing it into an unnatural environment in the hope that it will survive the journey and arrive alive to continue its former beauty in a new environment.

Any writer claiming not to care is a liar or no writer at all. The intensity of life compelling us to write, regularly leads to the literate gallows. Here our intensions and encounters will be blinded, gagged, and possibly killed as the nooses of punctuation and interpretation are forced around the experiences’ fragile neck.

I’ve written for years, but I’ve never published. I was too scared. The one dimensional nature of words and letters so forcefully opposes the multi dimensional nature of living. It frustrates and scares me that I have no way to guarantee that the topics and moments compelling me to write will arrive alive in the heart of the reader.

It’s time to start trying.

Forgive my dramatic introduction, and try and look past my insecurity. The boxy-nature of words might kill the creatures I’m trying to carry home, and every now and then I might present you with the corpse of a funny looking chameleon. Nonetheless, it is my heartfelt hope that the creatures who manage to arrive alive will engage you as they did me. That you’ll be able to stare into their beady little eyes, notice the delicate chests pumping oxygen, and form your own opinions about my show and tell creatures.